But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. “How gratified she must have been! If only I had known I would have made an effort to get home in time for dinner. She thrust at him, following, almost spitting him as he crashed against the altar, rocking the huge candlesticks and the vessels that stood on it. Catch him, she begged silently. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know. One day I can be a Gothic chick, and the next day I’ll be Hitler Youth. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days.
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